


Rich Boys Can't Dance

by ryoken



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: M/M, dance fic, not song fic get outta here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoken/pseuds/ryoken
Summary: leave room for duma





	Rich Boys Can't Dance

**Author's Note:**

> fernand genuinely cant dance???? but berkut isnt as good as they both think so he doesnt really notice. you gotta read this knowing berkut actually isnt shit its important to the nonplot. 
> 
> anyway okay so this isnt allegory, allegorier, allegoriest. but its, something? this is the closest weve ever gotten to my favorite bad dynamic in a fe game, man. i kind of set this right before berkut gets his ass kicked x10 aka the honeymoon stage

It was, in a simple word, humiliating. And it wasn’t just himself he was concerned with making a fool of. He was not dancing a solo act, despite the empty room. Fernand’s right hand was in Berkut’s, his other on Berkut’s chest – not quite daring to sit on his shoulder – and there was a weight in the form of a hand gripping his waist. His whole upper being was being guided by Berkut.

And yet… Fernand was failing. He wasn’t moving his lower half right. He could not position his feet properly, his steps didn’t move in time to Berkut’s, the way he carried himself must have seemed like a mockery in comparison to the nobility in front of him. Berkut had not commented on it the entire time, so Fernand did not stop for a second. But surely he had taken notice of it. He was certain the only thing stopping Berkut from leaving his side in disgust was the fact this dance was not seen by public eyes.

Fernand had no excuse for his lousy dancing. He could acknowledge that he was in no position to lead one, but a man like him should at least be able to follow the steps of a man like Berkut. In his eyes, there was no one more suited to be led along by Berkut than him. 

Learning how to do this ages ago should’ve been his priority. All that about joining the Deliverance, fighting for their cause – it wasted too much of his time, time that could’ve made him more useful to Berkut as a means to simple ends like these. And it felt like Fernand was getting more out of this than Berkut. The gentle guidance, the proximity, the closeness, everything he could feel mixed with the embarrassment of knowing he was doing no more than what any fairly clumsy woman could do. Berkut hadn’t admonished him for it… but Fernand wished he would at the least do that, point out his humiliating lack of skill and how lowly his steps were in comparison to Berkut’s own. Someone needed to say something.

“Is this satisfying for you, milord?” Fernand asked, looking up to Berkut’s eyes, which were directed straight ahead and not at him.

“Why wouldn’t it be,” Berkut replied, “Dancing is a sophisticated joy… one that deserves respect.” His eyes seemed bored, and still weren’t looking at Fernand.

“Of course it is… this isn’t the hopping around of some drunk townspeople; the way you dance is elegant, and befitting of a man of your stature.” Fernand felt himself begin to flush. To able to talk like this to Berkut less than a few centimeters away from him was thrilling in a way he couldn’t put a word to. “I was only wondering if dancing with me was enough for you, milord.”

There was a slight, but noticeable twitch of Berkut’s hand tightening around Fernand’s. It was not meant to be reassuring. For the first time since they started, his eyes met with Fernand’s.

“Do you think –” A bit tighter, “– I would be here right now, with you,” And tighter, “If you were not adequate? I thought  _ you _ might actually be one of the few who understood their place. You must understand that I am not the type to settle, Fernand.”

Fernand did more than tolerate Berkut’s grip. He practically melted under it.

“Y-yes, I understand what you mean,” Fernand breathed out.

“Do you?”

“I do – I meant – my dancing skills may not be up to par with your own, Lord Berkut. I wanted to be sure… you were satisfied with them.”

“Oh,” Berkut’s expression seemed to grow bored again, his grip becoming looser. “You’ve kept up fine with me up until now, and all you need to do is follow my lead. Was that all that concerned you?” 

For a second, maybe longer, Fernand almost regretted killing the spark of anger in his eyes. It was directed at him, yet… the unshakable faith Berkut had whenever he spoke of himself made Fernand feel like the very air was stolen from his lungs and he could barely breath in the sight of it. Being this close to Berkut’s chest, to his mouth, he felt like he had given all his oxygen to the man in front of him, almost.

“That was all, milord, yes.”

“Good,” Berkut’s reply was flat, with a smile that could be seen as sardonic, “I won’t be calming your petty insecurities in the future. I’d like to go back to dancing silently now, so the music may actually be heard.”

“Of course, milord.” 

**Author's Note:**

> arrrggghhhh aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhh some lines felt weird to write and i don't even think berkut would LIKE dancing that much but sure yeah thats how it be and uhm idk it's really hard to write fernand actually he's an embarrassing lovesick classist schoolboy & i hate twinky cucks


End file.
